


and so all yours

by makiyakinabe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aborted Soulbond, Attempted Rape/Non-Con by a Third Party, Learned Their Soulmate is a Horrible Person, M/M, Obsessive Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makiyakinabe/pseuds/makiyakinabe
Summary: Albus had always been the only one for Tom.





	and so all yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cerberusia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/gifts).



> Dear Cerberusia, your prompts kind of ran away with me so I'm afraid I haven't exactly followed them to the letter, but I hope you enjoy this regardless! (シ_ _)シ

Tom was born with an insatiable sense of hunger that he could never quite banish. It was not hunger in the literal sense of the word: as Mrs. Cole was quick to say to the visitors, no child ever went for lack of sustenance at Wool's—and it _was_ true, loath as Tom was to admit it, even if the bread was stale, the baked beans tasteless and the soups at supper never did amount to anything more than vegetable swill. No, it was a mental sort of hunger that gnawed and bit at Tom from the moment he opened his eyes.

When Tom stepped into the boys' bathroom down the hall to freshen up, looked in the mirror and saw the pale-faced boy staring balefully back, his tunic the same washed-out gray as every other orphan in residence, he clenched his teeth and hungered.

When Tom sat on his bench in the dining room, methodically shredding his bread to crumbs, and glanced up at enormous bursts of laughter, to find Dennis Bishop and his mates jostling one another as per usual three benches over, while everyone in the vicinity cheered and whooped, he narrowed his eyes and hungered.

When Tom lifted his chin from his hand during lessons at Mrs. Cole's call to attention, to find her standing at the front of the small classroom with a hand on the shoulder of Billy Stubbs, Chrissy Tucker, or another of his peers in whom the visitors saw some nebulous hint of 'desirableness', as he stared at the dimpled grin adorning the face of the child lucky enough to be snapped up for adoption he felt the familiar dull ache rise up inside him, fathomless and inexorable, and he _hungered_.

 

* * *

 

(And so it was of no surprise to Tom that moment he clapped his eyes on his soulmate, the first sensation he felt was hunger.)

 

* * *

 

The first time Tom saw his soulmate, it was a dreary day like any other with little to do by way of amusement. Tom kept to his room and was, for lack of anything better to do, practicing reading upside down when Mrs. Cole rapped on his door, opened it to let through the strangest man Tom had ever seen in his life, and went on her merry way without having said anything of import. Tom might've dwelt more on the fact that Mrs. Cole was as drunk as a lord and pondered how this could be used to his advantage, had he not been otherwise occupied. 

Namely, by the sudden compulsion to go on staring into his soulmate's eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

Tearing his gaze away with considerate difficulty, Tom swung his legs over the side of his bed and got to his feet. It wasn't something Tom did all that often—he was generally of the opinion that if someone wanted something from him, it was _they_ who should be the ones coming to _him,_ rather than the other way around—but he had the impression that it would remiss of him to simply sit and stare his fill.

Tom put on his most charming smile, stuck out his hand and said, "Good afternoon, sir. My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. How do you do?"

His soulmate was speechless. Tom was starting to feel a sliver of annoyance as he stood there in front of the man, his hand dangling in midair—really, if anyone had the right to be surprised, it ought to be _him_ , not the man with auburn beard and the gauche plum suit!—when his soulmate pulled himself together and took Tom's hand for a handshake that ended all too quickly.

"Nice to meet you, Tom," his soulmate lied. "I am Albus Dumbledore."

" _Albus_ ," said Tom, feeling the word on his tongue. "That's white in Latin, isn't it?"

If Albus was impressed, his face showed no sign of it. "I would prefer it if you if you address me as sir, Tom. Or Professor. I work at a school called Hogwarts—"

"Hogwarts?" Tom wrinkled his nose. What on _earth._ "What person in their right mind would name a school after bumps found on pig flesh, of all things? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard—" He cut himself short as he remembered who he was talking to, and inwardly winced. "I suppose the name has a quaint sort of charm to it, once you've got used to it," he allowed, smoothing over his face and putting on a conciliatory air. "No offense, Albus." 

"That's 'Professor' to you, Tom."

"Of course, Professor Albus," said Tom innocently even as he took his sweet time looking his soulmate up and down, and if his gaze grew sharp with hunger when he finally lifted his eyes to Albus's face, neither made any mention of it.

 

* * *

 

When Albus left, Tom flopped back onto his bed and said to the air, slowly, savouring the words as he did so, "His name is Albus Dumbledore." The smile that unfurled across his face was languid, self-satisfied, and he looked for all the world like a cat that had gotten its cream.

 

* * *

 

Where before Tom had been idling his time away, constantly trying to come up with new diversions to distract himself from sheer boredom, the remaining days of Tom's stay at Wool's counting up to September first flew by in a pleasant haze of reverie and anticipation.

It was clear that fortune had smiled upon Tom Marvolo Riddle at long last. For the first time in Tom's humdrum, tedious life, he had several things to look forward to from the moment he opened his eyes that were definite and even better, well within his grasp: he was to leave Wool's in a month or so—leave this sorry, wretched place where the sun never seemed to shine and he oftentimes thought he'd go spare—and he was infinitely glad for the opportunity. He was to attend a school of magic because yes, he was just as special as he'd always thought he was—he was a _wizard—_ and there had been a place set aside for him in the most prestigious institute of learning in all of Wizarding Britain from the moment of his birth. And last, but not least, he would be seeing Albus again.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts and columnist for _Transfiguration Today_. Tom's visit to Diagon Alley hadn't been the most informative in matters pertaining to his soulmate, but it was a start.

Tom was determined to make a good second impression. His first meeting with Albus had ended not in a bang, but a whimper. He'd gotten the sudden sense of realization and knowing that commonly came when one met the eyes of their soulmate—of having a heretofore unknown, missing part of him slot into place so seamlessly, it was a wonder he had never noticed it gone—but Albus had been so frustratingly standoffish that any initial thrill Tom'd felt had petered out long before the time had come to bid goodbye. Albus had been all impassive gazes and "You will address me as 'Professor', Tom," ad nauseam: his answers to Tom's questions had been perfunctory, to the point and he'd remained impervious to each and every one of Tom's allusions to the elephant in the room.

It had been all Tom could do to keep himself from seizing his soulmate by the front of his robes, pulling him down to eye level and snarl in his face.

But Tom had stayed his hand. He'd drawn comfort from the certainty that he and Albus were meant to be. It had been clear that Albus had known this, too, despite the great lengths to which he'd gone simply to plead ignorance, and this was another source of comfort for Tom.

His and Albus's first meeting had been inevitable; their subsequent ones would be equally so.

When Albus had stepped into his room, Tom had been caught off guard. Prior to the day he'd dismissed all mentions and talk of soulmates as fanciful whimsy, a handy excuse to daydream about the far-off day when they'd be able to leave Wool's once and for all—but the Muggle children Tom lived with, it seemed, did know a thing or two. Now, armed with the certain knowledge that soulmates existed and that his was one Albus Dumbledore, he wouldn't be caught by surprise again.

And so, when Tom saw his soulmate for the second time, he relaxed minutely the moment he picked Albus's auburn head out from the cluster of Professors seated at the High Table at the end of the Great Hall. Standing taller in his first-year robes, Tom cocked his head and stared avidly, waiting with bated breath for the moment Albus's eyes met his once more, but when that moment never came _—_ not when his name was called out by Headmaster Dippet, not when he strode up to the chair upon which the ragtag Sorting Hat sat and most certainly not when he was proclaimed a member of Slytherin House—Tom spent the entirety of his meal staring holes into the side of Albus's head, mentally willing his soulmate to look his way just once, to equally fruitless results.

A terrible ache welled up inside him, raw and familiar, but Tom tamped it down. Soon, he told himself firmly. Albus was the Professor of Transfiguration. Tom had spent the summer acquainting himself with Emeric Switch's  _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ and _Intermediate_ _Transfiguration_ , he would be able to answer any question Albus brought up in class and Albus would have no choice but to call on him, or come off rather suspicious.

Soon.

 

* * *

 

When Tom turned his matchstick into a silver needle on his first try—when Albus met his eyes long last and murmured, "Well done, Tom,"—he was so happy that he thought his heart would burst.

 

* * *

 

The initial euphoria that accompanied Albus's acknowledgement, alas, faded all too quickly. It had scarcely been a week when Tom decided he'd had his fill of compliments. He did not need Albus to tell him that he was by far the brightest wizard of his year—the ease with which he coasted through all his classes without having to consult his books once attested to the fact—and boredom, that old scourge, had found him at Hogwarts just as quickly as it had at Wool's, where he'd read every single book that had come by way of generous donation.

No, Tom wanted more. Much more.

Albus, once again, was less than forthcoming. His soulmate was always quick to move on after he complimented Tom's work and gave points to Slytherin, making a beeline over to a struggling Mulciber a couple tables down or towards the back of the room to Lestrange and Avery, who all but ignored their assignments in favour of whispering and sniggering among themselves. And Tom's attempts to catch Albus outside of lessons to have a word was proving to be frustratingly unproductive. Sometime in between the moment Tom gathered his things from the desk and the moment he lifted his head, doing another once-over of the classroom for the figure clad in garish robes, Albus would invariably disappear.

Tom didn't know what spell Albus had cast to get away, but he was determined to find out.

It was on one such visit to the library when Tom found himself cornered by a gang of Slytherin upper years. The Prefect Vassilis Selwyn and his lackeys, Boyle, Pucey and Warrington. Tom could have recognized them from anywhere—Selwyn was never seen without his Prefect's badge and whenever Tom went into the Great Hall for meals he'd turn up his nose, making a scathing comment about unsavoury company and appetites lost while the boys around him clamoured in agreement.

"Where do you think you're going, little Mudblood?" Selwyn's face was the very picture of helpfulness, apart from the disdainful curl to his mouth. Boyle, Pucey and Warrington leaned forward from where they stood behind the Prefect, their eyes glinting and their grins full of teeth.

Tom said nothing, only looked at Selwyn hatefully.

Selwyn let out a put-upon sigh. "Where are your manners? " His voice was a mockery of gentleness. "Learn to speak when your betters tell you to. Never would I have thought the day would come when a vulgar Mudblood whelp such as yourself would be allowed into Slytherin House, yet here we are, so I suppose we shall have to make the best of it."

"I'd like to see you try," sneered Tom. He reached for his wand, only to find it slipping out of his grasp.

"On second thought, I changed my mind." Selwyn turned Tom's wand around his hand. "Why don't I snap your wand right here and then and save ourselves all that trouble? You've certainly gotten on well enough without it for years."

Tom snarled and was just about to launch himself onto Selwyn when Albus's voice rang down the hall, loud and clear—

"What is going on here?"

"Professor Albus Dumbledore, sir!" cried Tom and huddled in immediately on himself, putting on the most pitiable look he could muster. "Prefect Selwyn took my wand."

With a wave of his own wand, Albus remedied the situation.

Later, after the Selwyn and his ilk were sent away with five points deducted each and the warning of future detentions should he find them harassing first years in the future, Tom all but skipped his way over to Albus. "You saved me, sir," he said, beaming. "My hero."

Albus's face was as impassive at always, but Tom did not let that or the mild reminder of "I am a _Professor_ , Tom," get to him. Albus, for all his standoffish airs and adverted gazes, had swooped in and rescued Tom in his hour of need. His soulmate did care—this was what it all came down to, and this was what mattered, really.

 

* * *

 

"Do not hesitate to ask for help," Albus had said, the first time he'd came to the rescue, and Tom had taken him for his word. If Albus had found it curious how often Tom was menaced by big, bad Slytherin boys in otherwise-empty corridors year after year, well—it was only right that a Professor should help out his student.

 

* * *

 

Tom tried to tell himself that he'd meant for this to happen. He was the one who'd returned the admiring glances that accompanied his growth spurt the summer before his fifth year with flirtatious smirks and lingering glances of his own. He was also the one who'd turned every meal into a performance, taking his sweet time to lick a spoon clean of cream or sauce, his eyes closed in pleasure. Tom was not blind: he had a third of Slytherin wrapped around his little finger, he'd used them, and he was not sorry in the least.

But even though Tom had meant for this to happen, the feeling of all those grubby hands tugging at his robes and moving over his body made him feel nauseous. Albus's intervention couldn't happen soon enough.

Albus descended upon the assailants in a blaze of righteous fury and in quick succession had taken away their wands, docked two hundred points from Slytherin, threatened expulsion, gave them detention until further notice and sent them packing. He was magnificent in all his Gryffindor glory but Tom, regrettably, was too shaken up to notice, a fact that he knew he would regret for days to come.

When a dishevelled Tom clung to the front of Albus's robes as he was helped up from the floor, the arm around his waist a warm, reassuring presence—when he peered up at Albus with wide, shining eyes and wetted his lips to whisper "My hero,", for a moment there Tom thought he had Albus, that his soulmate would take him right there and then.

But the delicious moment where Albus's arm held Tom fast ended all too quickly and soon Albus was extricating himself, stepping away, the heat gone from his eyes.

"We can't do this, Tom."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Why not?" Before Albus could answer, he went on, ticking the items off his fingers one by one. "Because you are a Professor and I a student? Because you are four times older? That's rubbish."

Albus's eyebrows rose. "You know very well that these are perfectly valid reasons—"

"No," interrupted Tom. "I don't think so. Why were we made soulmates in the first place if we weren't right for each other? It makes no sense." He took a determined step forward, his eyes flashing. "We are meant to be together. That's how it works."

Albus's face was unyielding. "You should be with people of your own age. Be honest with me, Tom, how many people among your year would you call your friends? How many would you call your close associates, even?" Whatever he saw on Tom's face, it seemed to be what he was looking for, because when he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Ever since we met you have focused on me to an unhealthy degree, and I assure you, it is in your best interest to desist."

"I don't need friends. I need _you_."

"You do not need me as much as you think you do," said Albus, his eyes hard, and strode away without looking back at Tom even once.

 

* * *

 

Gellert Grindlewald had bulging, sunken eyes, a face like a brick and a hairline that receded by leaps and bounds. Tom could not for the life of him fathom why Albus had been friends with someone like Gindlewald—he _supposed_ the man was alright, if one looked at his stance on Muggles and the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy instead of his face—and Tom took immense, perverse pleasure in casting _Incendio_ on every copy of the _Daily Prophet_  that he could get his hands on, watching with glee as the papers shrivelled up and burned into crisps.

 

* * *

 

Tom developed a habit of wanking in abandoned classrooms. He would go into one such classroom at random, cast a couple locking charms on the door and a quick cleaning charm on the walls and floor, sit down and take his cock out of his pants, breathing hard as he ran a slow hand up and down the length.

Tom would think of Albus. Albus, with his glorious auburn mane of hair and beard that Tom dreamed of running his fingers through. Albus, with his arm strong around Tom's waist and making heat pool in Tom's loins. Albus, with the lust in his eyes plain as day and doing strange things to Tom's heart. Albus, Albus, _Albus_.

And then Tom would lie back, sated, and say into the air, "My offer still stands, you know," and if his face fell when upon being greeted with silence, well. It wasn't as though anyone else was around to see it.

  

* * *

 

When Tom had Albus at last, the coupling was more exhilarating than anything he had ever imagined.

They had been arguing about Tom's Careers Advice session in Albus's office. Tom had told Slughorn that he wanted to go into Magical Research, with a focus on Transfiguration. Albus had leapt to the conclusion that Tom was following in his footsteps out of some misguided belief that it would allow Tom to remain close to him. It was, but that had been beside the point, and Tom had found Albus's entreaties that he change his mind and throw out his future plans insulting, to say the least.

One moment Tom had risen up, his face flushed with anger, and he'd been leaning over Albus's desk to snarl a parting shot and in the next moment, they were kissing and Tom had all but leapt across the desk to perch on Albus's lap.

At first Tom's kisses had been sloppy—he hadn't bothered practicing on anyone, dismissing the idea as pointless given that he'd had no desire to kiss anyone that wasn't Albus with his mouth—and it had shown. He all but attacked Albus with his teeth, hungrily snapping and biting at Albus's face and more often than not missing his mouth for his nose, his cheek, his chin. But Albus was as patient and thorough a teacher as he was a kisser and soon Tom was gently sucking Albus's bottom lip and opening his mouth to allow Albus's tongue access.

From there on it was only a matter of time before Albus took Tom to his sleeping quarters and divested Tom of his robes as quickly as Tom did his. Tom did a slow, languid stretch on Albus's bed before he lifted his head, peering up at Albus from beneath his lashes and crooking a finger—

And Albus went to Tom. Straddled him. Pinned him to the bed and proceeded to stroke and explore every inch of his body, making him gasp and moan and beg for Albus's cock. Never before in Tom's life had he begged anyone for anything but Tom was begging now, pleading with Albus to stop dawdling, to take him at once and thrusting his hips up in desperation.

Later, basking in the afterglow, Tom gave a happy little sigh from where he was curled into Albus's side, their legs in a tangle, Albus's hand a comforting warmth on his nape. Idly, Tom began tracing hearts on Albus's chest, feeling a rush of tenderness towards the man. Albus was by no means handsome in the conventional sense—he had hair that was beginning to thin in some places, wrinkles that etched into his face, skin that sagged beneath Tom's hand and his dress sense left a lot to be desired—but his mind was brilliant, his magic was intoxicating in its strength, his indomitable eyes drove Tom to distraction and most important of all, he was _Tom's_.

And Tom was not about to let him slip through his fingers. The thought of never getting to be with by Albus as intimately he he did then was all at once unbearable and on an impulse, Tom wrapped his arms tight around Albus, clinging to him in a fit of insecurity.

Albus's chest rumbled pleasantly beneath Tom as he chuckled. "I'm not exactly in a state to go anywhere, Tom," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "You need not worry."

But worry Tom did.

Despite having Albus at long last, despite being in Albus' bed, despite the fact that Albus was stroking a gentle hand over Tom's nape and Tom felt so comfortable that he wouldn't mind closing his eyes, relaxing and letting himself luxuriate under the caresses—despite everything, the familiar dull ache took hold of Tom, seized his heart in its vice-like grip. Tom had spent so long chasing after Albus that he still couldn't quite believe he had him. Even now, there was a small, niggling part of him that couldn't help but think that Albus would be suddenly overcome with regret at any moment, throw Tom out of his bed and they'd go back to being—to all intents and appearances—teacher and student.

Over my dead body, thought Tom grimly. He recalled an old runic spell that he had seen in a book about soulmates on one of his visits to the Restricted Section and, lifting a hand, he began to trace symbols on Albus's skin. 

Albus huffed a laugh. "What are you doing, Tom?"

"Mm. It's nothing." Tom pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of Albus's mouth, to distract him, and continued tracing.

"Is it? I recognize _Ehwaz_ , _Wynn_ , _Eihwaz_ , the Graphorn—" Albus caught Tom by the wrist, disfiguring the rune he had been in the middle of tracing. "Tom. Tell me. What are you writing?" His voice was urgent.

Tom scowled. "I said it's nothing! Let go!" He tried to wrench his wrist free, but Albus's hand only held it all the tighter. "You're hurting me!"

But Albus did not seem to care. "Nothing?" he repeated, skeptical. He shot Tom one of those trademark impassive gazes that Tom hated to pieces. "A likely story. The _Ehwaz_ is the rune customarily used for soulmates, you have been obsessed with me since you were eleven and we both know that you are not one to do things by halves. So I ask you again, Tom. Tell me: what are you writing?"

"Just something so that we could always be together." Tom's voice was sulky. When Albus lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed, Tom let out an irritated breath. "You don't believe me," he said in a rush. "You never do. You told me not to worry, Albus, but how can I do anything _but?_  You act as though it'd kill you to put more faith in me. It's just a little spell. A trifle, really. We're already soulmates. All I wanted to do was bind us even closer to one another, to make it so that we would never be apart ever again—"

"And I presume that once your spell is activated, were I to refuse and desire some time to myself, something terrible would befall me?"

Tom snarled. "For someone who claim to know me better than everyone,  _sir_ , you are an absolute idiot. If I wanted you on a silver platter, I'd have you a long time ago. No; were you to refuse and deny the spell it would have hurt us _both_."

Albus sighed. "What are you thinking, Tom? You must have known that we would have to spend a certain amount of time together, sleeping arrangements aside. You have classes to attend and I have students to teach. You have O.W.L.s to prepare for and in two years' time, N.E.W.T.s. Not to mention that I could have gotten fired by Headmaster Dippet. This is madness, even for you."

"Not really," said Tom with a shrug. "I'd have gone with you, if you got yourself fired. There'd have been no reason for me to stay."

Albus looked at Tom in horror. "You're serious about this." His voice was faint.

"I don't see what's wrong about binding our souls together," said Tom, scowling. "We _are_ soulmates."

"You're working with Dark Magic, Tom," Albus began, but Tom interrupted.

"I don't care. You can teach me all you know, I don't need to learn anything else from here anyway, I've already read the books for Sixth Year and Seventh Year. You can make me your apprentice and we can research magic to our hearts' content. We can be great together, don't you see Albus? We don't _need_ Hogwarts."

But Albus did not see. He was staring at Tom as though he was seeing a ghost and Tom, for the life of him, couldn't fathom why.


End file.
